He suggested they should take seriously the testimony of three witnesses who had stated unequivocally that only Mr Craig had left the bar to go out into the alley, and only then after he’d heard a woman scream. Craig had stated on oath that he had seen the defendant stab Wilson several times, and had then immediately returned to the bar and called the police.
Miss Wilson, on the other hand, told a different story, claiming that it was Mr Craig who had drawn her companions into a fight, and it was he who must have stabbed Wilson. However, she did not witness the murder, but explained it was her brother who told her what had happened before he died. If you accept this version of events, the judge said, you might ask yourselves why Mr Craig contacted the police, and perhaps more important, when DS Fuller interviewed him in the bar some twenty minutes later, why there was no sign of blood on any of the clothes he was wearing.
Alex cursed under his breath.
‘Members of the jury,’ Mr Justice Sackville continued, ‘there is nothing in Miss Wilson’s past to suggest that she is other than an honest and decent citizen. However, you may feel that her evidence is somewhat coloured by her devotion and long-held loyalty to Cartwright, whom she intends to marry should he be found not guilty. But that must not influence you in your decision. You must put aside any natural sympathy you might feel because Miss Wilson is pregnant. Your responsibility is to weigh up the evidence in this case and ignore any irrelevant side issues.’
The judge went on to emphasize that Cartwright had no previous criminal record, and that for the past eleven years he had been employed by the same company. He warned the jury not to read too much into the fact that Cartwright had not given evidence. That was his prerogative, he explained, although the jury might be puzzled by the decision, if he had nothing to hide.
Again, Alex cursed his inexperience. What had been an advantage when he took Pearson by surprise, and had even caused the CPS to come up with their offer to accept a guilty plea to a lesser charge, might now be working against him.
The judge ended his summing up by advising the jury to take their time. After all, he emphasized, a man’s future was in the balance. However, they should not forget that another man had lost his life, and if Danny Cartwright did not kill Bernie Wilson, they might well ask, who else could possibly have committed the crime?
At twelve minutes past two, the jury filed out of the court to begin their deliberations. For the next two hours, Alex tried not to remonstrate with himself for having failed to put Danny in the witness box. Did Pearson, as his father had suggested, really have other damning material that would have taken them both by surprise? Would Danny have been able to convince the jury that he didn’t murder his closest friend? Pointless questions that Alex nevertheless continued to mull over as he waited for the jury to return.
It was just after five o’clock when the seven men and five women returned to the court and took their places in the jury box. Alex couldn’t interpret the blank looks on their faces. Mr Justice Sackville looked down from the bench and asked, ‘Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?’
The foreman rose from his new place at the end of the front row. ‘No, m’lord,’ he responded, reading from a prepared script. ‘We are still sifting through the evidence, and will need more time before we can come to a decision.’
The judge nodded, and thanked the jury for their diligence. ‘I’m going to send you home now, so that you can rest before you continue your deliberations tomorrow morning. But be aware,’ he added, ‘that once you leave this courtroom, you should not discuss the case with anyone, including your families.’
Alex returned home to his little flat in Pimlico and spent a second sleepless night.
16
ALEX WAS BACK in court and seated in his place by five minutes to ten the following morning. Pearson greeted him with a warm smile. Had the old codger forgiven him for his ambush, or was he simply confident of the outcome? As the two of them waited for the jury to return, they chatted about roses, cricket, even who was most likely to be the first Mayor of London, but never once referred to the proceedings that had occupied every waking minute for the past two weeks.
The minutes turned into hours. As there was no sign of the jury returning by one o’clock, the judge released everyone for an hour’s lunch break. While Pearson went off for a meal in the Bar Mess on the top floor, Alex spent his time pacing up and down the corridor outside court number four. Juries in a murder trial rarely take less than four hours to reach a verdict, his father had told him over the phone that morning, for fear that it might be suggested that they had not taken their responsibilities seriously.
At eight minutes past four, the jury filed back into their places and this time Alex noted that their expressions had changed from blank to bemused. Mr Justice Sackville had no choice but to send them home for a second night.
The following morning, Alex had only been pacing up and down the marble corridors for just over an hour before an usher emerged from the courtroom and shouted, ‘The jury are returning to court number four.’
Once again, the foreman read from a prepared statement. ‘My lord,’ he began, his eyes never rising from the sheet of paper he was holding, his hand trembling slightly. ‘Despite many hours of deliberation, we are unable to come to a unanimous decision and wish to seek your guidance on how we should proceed.’
‘I sympathize with your problem,’ responded the judge, ‘but I must ask you to try one more time to reach a unanimous decision. I am loath to call a retrial only for the court to be put through the whole procedure a second time.’
Alex bowed his head. He would have settled for a retrial. If they gave him a second chance, he wasn’t in any doubt that . . . The jury filed back out without another word and didn’t reappear again that morning.
Alex sat alone in a corner of the restaurant on the third floor. He allowed his soup to go cold, and shifted his salad around the plate, before he returned to the corridor and continued his ritual pacing.
At twelve minutes past three, an announcement came over the tannoy. ‘All those involved in the Cartwright case, please make their way back in to court number four, as the jury is returning.’
Alex joined a stream of interested parties as they walked quickly down the corridor and filed back into the courtroom. Once they were settled, the judge reappeared and instructed the usher to summon the jury. As they entered the court, Alex couldn’t help noticing that one or two of them looked distressed.
The judge leant forward and asked the foreman, ‘Have you been able to reach a unanimous verdict?’
‘No, m’lord,’ came back the immediate reply.
‘Do you think that you might reach a unanimous verdict if I were to allow you a little more time?’
‘No, m’lord.’
‘Would it help if I were to consider a majority verdict, and by that I mean one where at least ten of you are in agreement?’
‘That might solve the problem, m’lord,’ the foreman replied.
‘Then I’ll ask you to reconvene and see if you can finally come to a verdict.’ The judge nodded to the usher, who led the jury back out of court.
Alex was about to rise and continue his perambulations, when Pearson leant across and said, ‘Stay still, dear boy. I have a feeling they’ll be back shortly.’ Alex settled down on his corner of the bench.
Just as Pearson had predicted, the jury were back in their places a few minutes later. Alex turned to Pearson, but before he could speak, the elderly QC said, ‘Don’t even ask, dear boy. I’ve never been able to fathom the machinations of a jury despite almost thirty years at the Bar.’ Alex was shaking as the usher stood and said, ‘Would the foreman please rise.’
‘Have you reached a verdict?’ the judge asked.
‘We have, m’lord,’ replied the foreman.
‘And is it a majority of you?’
‘Yes, m’lord, a majority of ten to two.’
The judge nodded in the direction of the usher, who bowed. �
��Members of the jury,’ he said, ‘do you find the prisoner at the bar, Daniel Arthur Cartwright, guilty or not guilty of murder?’ What seemed like an eternity to Alex before the foreman responded was in fact no more than a few seconds.
‘Guilty,’ the foreman pronounced.
A gasp went up around the court. Alex’s first reaction was to turn and look at Danny. He showed no sign of emotion. Above him in the public gallery came cries of ‘No!’ and the sound of sobbing.
Once the courtroom had come to order, the judge delivered a long preamble before passing sentence. The only words that would remain indelibly fixed in Alex’s mind were twenty-two years.
His father had told him never to allow a verdict to affect him. After all, only one defendant in a hundred was wrongly convicted.
Alex was in no doubt that Danny Cartwright was one in a hundred.
BOOK TWO
PRISON
17
‘WELCOME BACK, Cartwright.’ Danny glanced at the officer seated behind the desk in reception, but didn’t respond. The man looked down at the charge sheet. ‘Twenty-two years,’ Mr Jenkins said with a sigh. He paused. ‘I know how you must feel, because that’s just about the length of time I’ve been in the service.’ Danny had always thought of Mr Jenkins as old. Is that how I’ll look in twenty-two years, he wondered. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ the officer said – not a sentiment he often expressed.
‘Thanks, Mr Jenkins,’ Danny said quietly.
‘Now you’re no longer on remand,’ said Jenkins, ‘you’re not entitled to a single cell.’ He opened a file, which he studied for some time. Nothing moves quickly in prison. He ran his finger down a long column of names, stopping at an empty box. ‘I’m going to put you in block three, cell number one-two-nine.’ He checked the names of the present occupants. ‘They should make interesting company,’ he added without explanation, before nodding to the young officer standing behind him.
‘Look sharp, Cartwright, and follow me,’ said the officer Danny had never seen before.
Danny followed the officer down a long brick corridor that was painted in a shade of mauve no other establishment would have considered purchasing in bulk. They came to a halt at a double-barred gate. The officer selected a large key from the chain that hung round his waist, unlocked the first gate and ushered Danny through. He joined him before locking them both in, then unlocking the second gate. They now stepped into a corridor whose walls were painted green – a sign that they had reached a secure area. Everything in prison is colour-coded.
The officer accompanied Danny until they reached a second double-barred gate. This process was repeated four more times before Danny arrived at block three. It wasn’t hard to see why no one had ever escaped from Belmarsh. The colour of the walls had turned from mauve to green to blue by the time Danny’s keeper handed him over to a unit officer who wore the same blue uniform, the same white shirt, the same black tie, and had the inevitable shaven head to prove that he was just as hard as any of the inmates.
‘Right, Cartwright,’ said his new minder casually, ‘this is going to be your home for at least the next eight years, so you’d better settle down and get used to it. If you don’t give us any trouble, we won’t give you any. Understood?’
‘Understood, guv,’ repeated Danny, using the title every con gives a screw whose name he doesn’t know.
As Danny climbed the iron staircase to the first floor he didn’t come across another inmate. They were all locked up – as they nearly always were, sometimes for twenty-two hours a day. The new officer checked Danny’s name on the call sheet and chuckled when he saw which cell he had been allocated. ‘Mr Jenkins obviously has a sense of humour,’ he said as they came to a halt outside cell number 129.
Yet another key was selected from yet another ring, this time one heavy enough to open the lock of a two-inch-thick iron door. Danny stepped inside, and the heavy door slammed shut behind him. He looked suspiciously at the two inmates who already occupied the cell.
A heavily built man was lying half-asleep on a single bed, facing the wall. He didn’t even glance up at the new arrival. The other man was seated at the small table, writing. He put down his pen, rose from his place and thrust out a hand, which took Danny by surprise.
‘Nick Moncrieff,’ he said, sounding more like an officer than an inmate. ‘Welcome to your new abode,’ he added with a smile.
‘Danny Cartwright,’ Danny replied, shaking his hand. He looked across at the unoccupied bunk.
‘As you’re last in, you get the top bunk,’ said Moncrieff. ‘You’ll have the bottom one in two years’ time. By the way,’ he said, pointing to the giant who lay on the other bed, ‘that’s Big Al.’ Danny’s other cellmate looked a few years older than Nick. Big Al grunted, but still didn’t bother to turn round to find out who’d joined them. ‘Big Al doesn’t say a lot, but once you get to know him, he’s just fine,’ said Moncrieff. ‘It took me about six months, but perhaps you’ll be more successful.’
Danny heard the key turning in the lock, and the heavy door was pulled open once again.
‘Follow me, Cartwright,’ said a voice. Danny stepped back out of the cell and followed another officer he’d never seen before. Had the authorities already decided to put him in a different cell, he wondered, as the screw led him back down the iron staircase, along another corridor, and through a further set of double-barred gates before coming to a halt outside a door marked STORES. The officer gave a firm rap on the little double doors, and a moment later they were pulled open from the inside.
‘CK4802 Cartwright,’ said the officer, checking his charge sheet.
‘Strip off,’ said the stores manager. ‘You won’t be wearing any of those clothes again’ – he looked down at the charge sheet – ‘until 2022.’ He laughed at a joke he cracked about five times a day. Only the year changed.
Once Danny had stripped, he was handed two pairs of boxer shorts (red and white stripes), two shirts (blue and white stripes), one pair of jeans (blue), two T-shirts (white), one pullover (grey), one donkey jacket (black), two pairs of socks (grey), one pair of shorts (blue gym), two singlets (white gym), two sheets (nylon, green), one blanket (grey), one pillow case (green) and one pillow (circular, solid); the one item he was allowed to keep were his trainers – a prisoner’s only opportunity to make a fashion statement.
The stores manager gathered up all of Danny’s clothes and dropped them in a large plastic bag, filled in the name Cartwright CK4802 on a little tag, and sealed up the bag. He then handed Danny a smaller plastic bag which contained a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a plastic disposable razor, one flannel (green), one hand towel (green), one plastic plate (grey), one plastic knife, one plastic fork and one plastic spoon. He ticked several boxes on a green form before swivelling it round, pointing to a line with his forefinger and handing Danny a well-bitten biro that was attached to the desk by a chain. Danny scrawled an illegible squiggle.
‘You report back to the stores every Thursday afternoon between three and five,’ said the stores manager, ‘when you’ll be given a change of clothes. Any damage and you’ll have the requisite sum deducted from your weekly wage. And I decide how much that will be,’ he added before slamming the doors closed.
Danny picked up the two plastic bags and followed the officer back down the corridor to his cell. He was locked up moments later, without a single word having passed between them. Big Al didn’t seem to have stirred in his absence, and Nick was still seated at the tiny table, writing.
Danny climbed up on to the top bunk and lay flat on the lumpy mattress. While he’d been on remand for the past six months, he’d been allowed to wear his own clothes, roam around the ground floor chatting to his fellow inmates, watch television, play table tennis, even buy a Coke and sandwich from a vending machine – but no longer. Now he was a lifer, and for the first time he was finding out what losing your freedom really meant.
Danny decided to make up his bed. He took his time, as he was beginning to discover j
ust how many hours there are in each day, how many minutes in each hour and how many seconds in each minute when you’re locked up in a cell twelve foot by eight, with two strangers to share your space – one of them large.
Once he’d made the bed, Danny climbed back on to it, settled down and stared up at the white ceiling. One of the few advantages of being on the top bunk is that your head is opposite the tiny barred window: the only proof that there is an outside world. Danny looked through the iron bars at the other three blocks that made up the spur, the exercise yard and several high walls topped with razor wire that stretched as far as the eye could see. Danny stared back up at the ceiling. His thoughts turned to Beth. He hadn’t even been allowed to say goodbye to her.
Next week, and for the next thousand weeks, he’d be locked up in this hellhole. His only chance of escape was an appeal. Mr Redmayne had warned him that that might not be heard for at least a year. The court lists were overcrowded, and the longer your sentence, the longer you had to wait before they got around to your appeal. Surely a year would be more than enough time for Mr Redmayne to gather all the evidence he needed to prove that Danny was innocent?
Moments after Mr Justice Sackville had passed sentence, Alex Redmayne left the courtroom and walked down a carpeted, wallpapered corridor that was littered with pictures of former judges. He knocked on the door of another judge’s chambers, walked in, slumped on a comfortable chair in front of his father’s desk and said simply, ‘Guilty.’
Mr Justice Redmayne walked across to the drinks cabinet. ‘You may as well get used to it,’ he said as he drew out the cork from the bottle he’d selected that morning, win or lose, ‘because I can tell you that since the abolition of capital punishment, far more prisoners charged with murder have been convicted, and, almost without exception, the jury gets it right.’ He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to his son. ‘Will you continue to represent Cartwright when his case comes up for appeal?’ he asked before taking a sip from his own glass.
A Prisoner of Birth Page 9